Tuesday, February 24, 2009

"Trying Out for the Basketball Team"

My freshman year of high school, I went out for the basketball team. I had a decent tryout, but was cut. By no means was I heartbroken, though. I was a five-foot-five one hundred and two pound white kid who, yes, had made the all-star team his eighth grade year and been the undeniable MVP of aforementioned all-star game, but it also bears mentioning that I was a stand out on a team that was one of the worst grade school basketball teams that has ever existed. And furthermore, I went to a high school that had a serious athletic program, so there were a lot of talented players vying for only so many positions—Basically what I’m saying is that getting cut wasn’t that big a deal.

Anyway, two years passed, and during this time, I had no desire to go out for the team again and thusly did not.

But then, in my senior year, something stirred deep inside of me: I was gonna give it one more try. Why not?

The thing of it, too, was that I had something of a loophole in my favor. See, basketball is a winter sport and I was a member—more or less—of the cross-country team, which is a fall sport. Now this may seem like nothing because I haven’t gotten to the point where I tie it all together and it makes sense, but what you have to realize is this: Because I was a member—again, more or less—of the cross-country team, by the time I was officially allowed to try out for the basketball team, the whole team had pretty much already been picked, save one or two spots left open for people coming from fall sports. So a bunch of kids who were way better and far more talented than me had already gotten cut and I had a chance to in essence “sneak on” to the team, if you will—and even if you won’t, it doesn’t matter; you can’t do anything. Where were we?

Oh, yeah, so I was trying to sneak my way on to the squad.—Actually, that’s not true: at least it’s not entirely true. See, I felt that I had something unique to offer the team in way of a twelfth man. In my mind’s eye, I, like many others, saw the role of the twelfth man on a basketball team as the guy who’s all right but not very good—but who has heart. The underdog kid. And I also knew—I had done an informal poll—that people would come out in droves on the off chance that a now five foot nine one hundred and about fifty pound me might actually get into a game. So the way I saw it, if I made the squad, everybody was a winner.

Cut to: tryouts, and I am awful. I’m talkin’ horrible. Serious garbage. I don’t know any of the drills and it doesn’t even matter because I’m a hundred times slower, weaker, and less skilled than everyone else. At one point, I get rejected so hard it’s like something out of a movie.

And this, my friends, brings us to our end. My monstrosity of a tryout lasted two days and at the end of the second day, as I was packing my bag, the coach came over to me and said, “John, thanks for coming out, but I don’t think I’m gonna be able to use you this year.” I said “Okay” and for a split second, I actually thought: Yeah, okay, he can’t use me this year. And then I had this insanely fast fantasy sequence where I saw myself being kind of redshirted and then coming back and making the team the next year.

Then I remembered that I was a senior.

But what I’ve always thought is the most interesting part of this story—the funniest part is when I get majorly rejected—is that, as the coach walked away, being a kid who had been knocked around a lot already by life, I appreciated and had a sense of humor about the whole thing at the very moment that it happened.

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